


Mirrored Fractions

by Wish_On_A_Wing



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternaitive Plot (contradicting 3a), Angst, Artistic Derek Hale, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parallel Realities, Partial amnesia, Post Season 2, Stiles is paranoid, and insecure, and wonderful, drunk!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:44:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wish_On_A_Wing/pseuds/Wish_On_A_Wing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>By lunchtime, Stiles is convinced that he's officially gone insane. Either that or everyone in his life has decided to pull a really nasty prank on his expense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirrored Fractions

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I started writing this BEFORE 3a started airing, and so I stuck with that timeline and with my original plans for this fic, and didn't change anything despite it being contradicted in 3a.
> 
> A Humongous thank you is in order to my two wonderful friends: To [FlyMeAway](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyMeAway/pseuds/FlyMeAway), for walking me through this from the very beginning; And to [teaandsunflower](http://teaandsunflower.tumblr.com/), for being the best, most elaborating reader and observer. This one could not have been done without you two, and so it's dedicated to you.

Stiles is familiar with this situation. He's experienced this dozens of times as a kid, and possibly even more so ever since his life became an out-of-control fantasy movie. He's passed through these halls so many times, enough to memorize every picture, every dent in the walls, every permanent stain on the floor tiles. He knows the set of automatic doors at the end of the hall, knows where they lead and knows every person behind them by name, medical specialization and sexual preference. But this time it's different. This time, he's on the wrong side of those doors.

He is walking up and down the waiting hall, tapping his fingers against his thighs as he goes, his eyes going wild in all directions as he can't stay focused on one spot for more than ten seconds. Scott is sitting down in a chair somewhere next to him, with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands covering his ears. He is staring hard at the floor, clearly trying to avoid looking at Stiles. It goes on like this for about ten minutes before Scott loses it.

"Stiles, calm down. Your dad is a tough guy. He's going to be fine. Besides, that guy barely managed to scratch him."

Stiles doesn't answer, doesn't even show a sign that he heard Scott, and he definitely doesn't show a sign that he has any intention to calm down.

"Really, making a hole in the floor is not gonna help."

Stiles doesn't acknowledge that, either.

Scott sighs and says, "This isn't your fault, you know."

That finally gets Stiles' attention. He stops roaming around the room and turns to look at Scott. His voice is frantic as he speaks, but very quiet, too. "Really? So I haven't been hanging around werewolves this past year? There's no Alpha pack trying to kill pretty much everyone within a 12-mile-radius, us being first on their list? You and Derek and Isaac, you all just occasionally turn into unicorns and go hoppin' under the freaking rainbow, is that it?"

Scott scowls and gets up from his chair. "That's not what I mean. I'm just saying that you shouldn't- -"

He doesn't finish the sentence, because just then the double-doors open and his mom comes out, looking weary but satisfied. She looks Stiles straight in the eye and says, "Your dad is going to be just fine. He didn't lose too much blood, thanks to the fact that you got him here so fast, and the cut is mainly superficial. He was very lucky." She gives both of them a meaningful look with that. "We finished disinfecting and stitching his wound, so another nurse is bandaging it now. He should be fine in the next couple of days, but the doctor told him to stay home for the rest of the week just to be sure. He also gave him a prescription for pain killers and anti-inflammatory pills. Make sure he takes them, okay, Stiles?"

"Of course. Thanks a lot, Mrs. McCall."

"Don't worry about it." She says, putting a warm, comforting hand on Stiles' upper arm. "They'll be done with him in a few minutes and then you can take him home."

_ _

It's starting to get dark by the time Stiles and his dad are done with all the paperwork and are out of the hospital. Stiles is driving, since they came with the jeep and the less physical activity his dad does right now, the better. In the shotgun seat, his father is resting his eyes, and although Stiles is pretty sure he's not sleeping, he stays quiet. Instead of talking, he plays random "Zelda" tunes in his head in order to shut down the sound of his own thoughts. Stiles is uncharacteristically slow and careful as he's driving through town, trying not to let his dad feel any bumps on the road.

It takes them a while to get out of the car and into the house, what with Stiles insisting on supporting his dad as they go and stopping every two seconds to ask him if he wants to rest, but eventually his dad is sitting on the couch while Stiles is in the kitchen, making them dinner. That basically means that he's throwing pretty much all the leftovers in the fridge into a pan with a few eggs and scrambles it all together. It ain't pretty, but the outcome is edible. 

Stiles brings the two plates to the living room. Then he goes to the kitchen again, and when he comes back he puts a glass of water with two pills in front of his dad. It wins him an annoyed and disapproving look, but Stiles just stares back and waits. His dad sighs and takes the pills, and Stiles sits down next to him.

It takes about seven seconds for Stiles to start talking. "Hey, dad, you okay? Do you need me to get you anything?"

"I'm good."

"You sure? You don't need anything? I can get you a pillow. Or the remote. Or some more water. Or- -"

"The remote will be good, if it gives you something else to occupy yourself with."

Stiles passes the remote and his dad turns on the TV absentmindedly, but neither of them is watching whatever random channel his dad put on. It's just background noise.

"Hey, Stiles?" his dad says after a few minutes.

"Yeah?" Stiles says, picking at the barely-touched food on his plate with a fork.

"Thank you."

Stiles doesn't answer. Instead he looks at his dad and gives him a shade of a smile, faint, but also warm, in a way.

After dinner, Stiles insists on helping his dad get settled in bed with everything he needs. Just before closing the door, he gives an occasional glance out his dad's window, and is not too surprised to see the Camaro parking in the driveway. Stiles sighs and goes downstairs.

He opens the front door and goes outside, where Derek is leaning against his car with his arms crossed over his chest. He's all carved muscles under that tight t-shirt, which is really unfair towards Stiles, especially because his face has 'furious' written all over it.

"What happened?" he demands in a low voice.

"Great to see you too, man." Stiles says, pissed. "Always glad to have a house visit from your friendly neighborhood werewolf."

Derek just glares at him. Stiles sighs, deciding that the best way to treat this situation as quickly as possible is to answer the question. "Scott and I went into the woods. We wanted to see if he could find a trail that will lead to any clues, you know, after last night's murder. And of course my dad was there, since he's the Sheriff and there's a crime scene in the forest," Stiles shoots Derek a diagonal look. "Again. So unfortunately my dad saw my jeep and came to tell us to get the fuck out of there, again. That's when I saw him."

Stiles watches Derek's face carefully, the slight shift to it, the way the look in his eyes grows more intense and alert. "He moved fast, so I didn't see his face clearly, but it was definitely another werewolf. He came from behind my dad, running right towards me and Scott, but I guess my dad heard something because he moved in front of us really fast and…" Stiles trails off, can't finish the sentence. Derek just waits, silent, and after a few breaths Stiles continues. 

"Um, so he managed to scratch my dad in the back, but then Scott had some freaking of growling contest with him or whatever, I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention, and he ran off. Anyway, my dad didn't see anything, so your little secret's safe." The second these words leave Stiles' mouth, he regrets them. They might not fit into the classic definition of friends, but he knows Derek well enough to know that's not why he's here.

"How is your dad?" Derek asks quietly after few seconds. He still looks mad, and something else as well, something Stiles is too tired to try and decipher.

"He'll be fine." Stiles says, looking at Derek up and down despite himself. "Are we done here? I still need to make him something for tomorrow, otherwise he'll order some take-out that he really shouldn't eat."

"How about you?" Derek asks, eyebrows raised.

"How about he eats me?"

"No, you moron." Derek growls, just a tiny edge of wolf to that. Stiles waits to see if he can wriggle the question out of him, but gives up after a few seconds. "I'm fine, see, no scratches, no claw-marks, no bites. Huzzah and all that."

"Stiles, this…" Derek says, not angry anymore. "This worsens everything."

"No shit, Sherlock!" Stiles says, his voice slightly high-pitched, failing in his attempt not to care how it sounds or what Derek thinks of it. "But seriously, can't we have the whole freak-out meeting tomorrow or something?"

"Fine, then. After school." Derek finally grits from between his teeth and turns to go. He doesn't look back at Stiles when he says, "Get some sleep. You look like shit."

"Way to make a guy feel good about himself!" Stiles yells after the driving Camaro. "Ass." He adds quietly, and tries really hard to mean it.

_ _

Stiles is sitting on the bench after practice, catching his breath. The Coach has been kind of killing him in practices ever since his triple-score in the finals. Lydia and Allison are sitting somewhere behind him, because they overheard Stiles telling Scott and Isaac about last night and Allison said she wanted to come too, her tone not really leaving room for debate. Scott and Isaac, being annoying werewolves who don't need breathing-breaks, are still practicing on the field. Everyone else left already, so they're doing it wolf style, meaning a lot of clashing into each other and really fast movements that Stiles can barely keep track of.

They stop, suddenly. There's a slight shift in the aura around them, like when there's a gush of unexpected wind or a change of tides. Their faces grow serious and anxious, their eyes filled with some sort of… expectation, need, almost. Stiles knows Derek's there before he sees him with Peter at the end of the field, and he thinks that while Scott might manage to trick his brain into believing he's not in Derek's pack, his senses and instincts believe otherwise.

They're all standing under the stadium seats, because Derek didn't want to draw attention. When Stiles said that's stupid because there's no one around and because a bunch of people lurking in the shadows of stadium seats and talking in hushed voices was probably in the police academy's definition of suspicious, Derek just gave him a killer look and told him to shut up.

"So what's up?" Scott asks.

Derek doesn't answer. Instead he gives Allison and Lydia a harsh look.

"Aww, come on, let's not do this 'they shouldn't be here' bit." Stiles says. "They're here, they can help, they wanna help, we need help, everyone's happy."

"I don't trust you." Derek's talking to Allison.

"Back at you. But it's not the point right now."

Derek grits his teeth, but seems to let the matter go for the time being. "At the moment we've got two problems. One is that we still haven't found Boyd and Erica. We've been searching, but we haven't got any leads yet."

"We'll keep searching." Isaac says tightly. "We'll find them. The Alpha pack has to slip eventually."

"And spread havoc throughout town in the meantime." Lydia points out. "Or have you missed the fact that someone was brutally murdered two nights ago? What's with that, anyway?"

Derek releases a sigh and purses his lips for a second before he answers reluctantly, "My guess is the girl knew something, something they didn't want anyone to find out." 

"Or they just enjoyed killing her." Peter adds cheerfully. "It was a full moon, after all." Derek graces him with one of his famous 'be-quiet-or-I'll-maim-you' looks, eyebrows and all.

"What's the other problem?" Allison asks, ignoring Peter's lovely remark.

"Stiles." Derek says, shifting so that now he's looking straight at him.

"Excuse me? Well, gee, thanks a lot, I really feel helpful and welcome and- -" 

"That guy that attacked your dad wasn't aiming for him or for Scott. He was trying to get to you."

"Right. Wait, what?" Stiles asks. "Why?" This time the question comes not from Stiles, but from Scott. There's a not-so-human undertone to his voice, and Stiles feels a wave of warmth all of a sudden.

"To kill him, hopefully." Peter says.

"That is one option." Derek says slowly and unwillingly, his gaze passing through the circle. "They want to throw us into disarray, make us angry and helpless in order to weaken us both as a pack and as individuals. They believe Stiles to be their fastest, easiest and most effective way of doing that."

"That's great, wonderful, fantastic, yeah, very helpful indeed, definitely needed to know that." He says, trying to control the sound of his own voice, trying desperately to calm his heartbeat a little since half the circle can actually hear it, and most of all trying not to feel the taste of frustration and guilt that's rolling on his tongue.

"What are the other options?" Isaac asks, ignoring Stiles.

"Maybe they just want to enjoy the presence of my enchanting personality," Stiles says sardonically.

"Well, they might just want to keep him somewhere, mess with our heads, like with Erica and Boyd." Derek says, also ignoring Stiles. Isn't it fucking terrific when they do that? "Or…" Derek's face gives nothing away, but he falters for a second, as if wondering if to keep talking.

"Or they want to turn him." Peter finishes the sentence for him. There's a second of tense silence, then Peter continues. "It's the ultimate offense. They take something that's yours and make it theirs. It's as simple as that."

"Hey, I'm not an object, thank you very much, you psychopathic jerk, and I'm not planning on becoming one any time soon. So why don't we all ease up on the possession metaphor. Besides, it doesn't make sense. It's possible to leave a pack and join another, right? If they turn me and I switch allegiances, it would seriously backfire. Why would they want to risk it?"

"It is possible, but it's not that easy." Derek says. "You need extreme determination and willpower. Your every instinct will roar against it, every inch of your body will ache for the Alpha that bit you, and only after you've beat those you might be able to leave his pack. If they don't sense it and kill you, that is."

"So what do we do?" Scott asks.

An old thought suddenly jumps up and down in Stiles' head. "Well, I can't do much about the whole killing-slash-kidnapping-just-for-the-heck-of-it bit," he says in a voice that he hopes doesn't sound like a panicked shriek to the others as much as it does to him. And, for the first time since this conversation started, his eyes leave Derek and move to Lydia. "But about the biting thing… I might have an idea."

_ _

The next three days, Stiles accompanies Scott to work after school. His dad is still at home recovering, so he stays just a couple of hours a day before going home to take care of… well, everything else. It's a good distraction. It's a good way to ignore everything that's going on in his head. It's a good excuse to move around, to not stay somewhere too much. Only it's not an excuse, not exactly, Stiles thinks. This is important too. It might stop the next time. That's what he keeps repeating in his head. On the third day, when they think they're finished, he texts Derek and Lydia to meet them there the following day.

Stiles is sitting on a chair, half leaning on the stainless steel table. Dr. Deaton is leaning against the counter, Scott is sitting next to him on the counter, Lydia is standing at the far corner of the room and Derek is standing closest to the door, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed in his usual charming ready-to-kill style. They're all looking at Stiles, which makes him even jumpier than usual, his body agitated to begin.

"So, um, yeah, idea." Stiles says in a practical tone, looking at each of them personally, thinking where to begin. His leg is jumping restlessly, tiny movements that probably drive the two werewolves in the room insane, but he can't bring himself to stop. He and Deaton have done everything in their power to make sure this thing is as safe as possible. He's stopped worrying himself over it. The problem now, however, is to get the others accept the idea, too. 

"Would you care to tell me why I'm even here?" Lydia asks irritably after a few seconds of silence from Stiles.

He looks up to her. "Actually that's a good place to start. So, uh, we all know Lydia is immune and all that, right? And we all know how Scott here turned Gerard into a giant human ink fountain, which was so awesome, by the way, did I ever tell you that was awesome?"

"Stiles," Derek grunts from his corner.

"Right. Moving on. So anyway, after this whole Gerard-gets-bitten-by-a-werewolf-but-turned-into-a-weresquid thing, I started thinking about combining the two things together."

"What, the werewolf and the weresquid?" Scott asks, and Stiles wonders for a second if he's joking or if he's genuinely confused.

"That's when Stiles came to see me." Dr. Deaton interrupts. "He thought maybe combining Lydia's immunity with the Mountain Ash could suffice a… less disturbing result." Stiles thinks he hears a ghost of a chuckle at the end of that sentence, and he continues.

"Yeah, so I came to Dr. Deaton to see if maybe, if we could examine Lydia's blood, this idea I had was applicable."

"Is it?" Derek raises an eyebrow.

"Of course not." It's Lydia who answers, not Stiles. "Even if this was just a case of a regular pathogen that infiltrated my system, it was months ago. There's almost no trace of the immunity system's reaction in my body now."

"Yeah, this is where we get to the 'why you're here' part." Stiles is suddenly very interested in the empty Reese's pack he found in his pocket.

"That's why Stiles came to me. He figured I'd have some advice for him, and I did. When I saw you had no reaction to the bite, I was very… intrigued." Dr. Deaton says. "So I called in a favor from a colleague who works at the hospital. I gave him a call a few days after you've been hospitalized."

"You… you stole my blood sample?" She lifts her eyebrows, her tone cold but not shocked. Stiles can't decide if she's pissed or intrigued. He also can't seem to decide which is worse.

"I didn't steal anything." Dr. Deaton answers peacefully. His tranquility is seriously impressing Stiles. "I simply borrowed a part of your sample. Let's say it was for the sake of medical research."

"This is all fascinating, but can you get to the point?" Derek growls impatiently.

"Sure thing, sunshine." Stiles says and smiles sarcastically at him. "Well, let's start out with the basics: aside from all the supernatural mumbo-jumbo, the bite is basically meant to insert a pathogen into the body, correct?"

"It's not that simple, but let's go with yes for the sake of argument." Derek says.

"So according to that logic, if Lydia's immune, it means her body is capable of producing the lymphocytes that fight the pathogen off, it did produce them. Millions of them were running through her blood stream after she got bitten. And with a great deal of help from the good Doc here," Stiles gestures towards Dr. Deaton and allows himself a tiny smug smile, "We think we managed to isolate those lymphocytes."

"Whoa, back up a little," Scott sounds lost. "Lymphi-what? I didn't get, like, half of what you just said."

"Right," Stiles tries to reorganize his thoughts, "Um, let me rephrase this, just a sec…"

"Allow me," Dr. Deaton says and turns to Scott. "When you're sick, it's because something infiltrated your body, something that triggered the immunity system. That something is called a pathogen. The system manufactures specific cells that destroy whatever attacked you. Those are the Lymphocytes Stiles mentioned. When a person is bitten, the body is unable to produce the cells that will fight the bite off. Except for Lydia's body. And Stiles and I think we managed to track and isolate those cells."

"Doc did most of the work, really, but…" Stiles reaches into his pocket, pulls out a translucent bottle filled with pills and puts it on the table. Scott still looks somewhat baffled.

"Why take pills? Why not just inject the Lymphocytes into the blood stream?" Derek asks, looking at the pills and then at Stiles.

"I might've tried that if this was a strictly biological, natural case. But we have the supernatural aspect to think of." Dr. Deaton answers, "I don't know how the body will react without the effect of the Mountain Ash. It might simply reject the Lymphocytes. The Mountain Ash, along with some other herbs, will help neutralize the supernatural side of things, but it's in a small dose, so it shouldn't have any negative effects."

"Shouldn't? How do we know it's not going to…" He looks at Stiles intensely.

"What? Make me evolve into a Tentacruel?" Stiles says, and Scott laughs softly. Derek's face doesn't change one bit. "Aww, come on, everyone loves Pokémon jokes, didn't you watch Pokémon as a kid? Digimon? Anything?"

"How do you know it's not going to harm you in any way?" Derek asks, still dead serious, eyes still on Stiles', filled with that intensity that Stiles knows, but is scared to name.

And Stiles, being Stiles, he just can't deal with that, not right now, not seriously, so instead he says in his best, most exaggerated philosophical voice, "Ah, dear fellows, that is for you to wonder and for me to find out!" And with that he throws a pill into his mouth and gulps down the glass of water Dr. Deaton is handing him.

_ _

"For the record, I am still strongly against this arrangement." Stiles says for the hundredth time.

It's been like this for a couple of days. At the moment they're in his room, Stiles sprawled on his bed with his Trigonometry homework on the pillow and Derek sitting on the chair with his feet up, scribbling stuff with a pencil in a black hardcover notebook, erasing and rewriting every so often. He doesn't bother looking up when he says, "Okay then, genius, what's your plan?"

"We go help the others. Or I stay home surrounded by Mountain Ash, with an unauthorized gun to shoot the fuck out of anyone who walks in. I don't know, dude. My point is you should be out there trying to find Boyd and Erica and stop this madness. I'm a big boy, I don't need a babysitter."

That's right, Derek has been babysitting Stiles. Ever since his dad went back to work (before the Doctor's orders, of course), Stiles is being actively body-guarded by Derek for several hours a day. Yes, Derek specifically, because he claims the others are "no match for the alphas". He also claims it's not necessary when Stiles' dad is home, because he's still the Sherriff and the alpha pack wouldn't want to draw that kind of attention. To Stiles' humble opinion, that's just a load of crap Derek says to avoid giving his dad an explanation. Stiles knows he's lurking nearby in his Camaro even after he leaves.

It hasn't been as awkwardly horrible as Stiles might've thought. They've entered a sort of routine - Derek reads or writes in his notebook while Stiles does school work or research; Stiles says something every few minutes, because he's Stiles and he can't keep quiet, though the silence is not uncomfortable; Derek sighs, nods, raises his eyebrows and tells Stiles to shut up a lot (not necessarily all at the same time, though); He sits in the living room while Stiles makes dinner and packed lunches that his dad probably hides in his desk while ordering take-out; Derek watches Stiles carefully and observationally out of the corner of his eye when Stiles is too occupied to do more than glance back for a second; He's always gone a heartbeat before Stiles' dad walks through the door. 

Sometimes, when Stiles manages to shut up or not to say anything stupid for more than ten minutes, Derek talks to him, quiet and penetrating. And although those times are few and far between, Stiles drinks his words desperately, as if he was a dying man and those moments were his remedy.

After a few minutes of silence on Derek's side, Stiles gives up on the attempt to talk reason with him, as usual. Instead he gets up. "Well, I'm starving. I'm going to fix me somethin' to eat. Besides, I can't stand the sight of Trigo any longer." He starts going down the stairs. "By the way, your services are not required tomorrow. I got this thing with my dad after school." It's not a lie, really. Just not the whole truth. Stiles hopes his heartbeat is not giving him away. They get to the first floor and Stiles goes into the kitchen while Derek sits wordlessly on the couch with his notebook.

"So! What are we having?" Stiles says too enthusiastically and starts roaming around the kitchen. He opens drawers and cabinets at random, calling what he has as he goes, "Okay, I've got pasta, I've got tomato sauce, that's good, but we're out of garlic, how come we're always out of garlic, are we fending off vampires or something? Oh, I have rice! Are you good with rice? Dad texted me and said he'd be late, so I'm making some for you too, I can add some chicken to it, I think we have some in the fridge, dad bought tons because it was on sale- -"

"Stiles!" Derek growls impatiently. "Whatever you do is fine, just… why do you talk so much?"

Ironically, this makes Stiles go still for a few minutes. He feels emptied all of a sudden, too weary to use his usual cynicism as his shield. He shuffles around the kitchen quietly for a while, making sure he stays with his back to the living room, though he feels Derek still looking at him. When he answers, he finds the honesty of it unexpected. 

"If I'm not talking for too long, then I'm left alone inside my head. And trust me, it's not a very pleasant place to be left alone in right now." 

Derek's doesn't say anything, but Stiles reckons he knows the feeling all too well. Stiles wants to stop himself there, but he can't, it's out and it's like a rolling snowball, he keeps talking despite himself. "I know nothing happened, and I'm grateful and relieved and all, but… It's my dad. If anything happened to him I… it would've been my fault."

The silence is eerie for a long time, long enough for Stiles to think Derek's not going to say anything, but then he does, very quietly. "Don't stick to what might've happened, to what you couldn't do. Stick to what you can do." Stiles is pretty sure Derek doesn't apply that piece of advice to himself, and he's pretty sure he won't manage it that well either. Still, it makes the knot in Stiles' stomach untangle itself just a little.

Stiles goes back to his rice, as they say nothing else. When he's done and pouring to plates, his back still turned, he calls to Derek, "Hey, I know you've been living in a house with no electricity or running water or walls for a while, but dude, don't you ever want to try the PlayStation or something? Because seriously, I've got the best games… Derek? Hello?" he goes into the living room with the two plates to find it empty. Why doesn't Derek ever say he's going to the bathroom? It's downright rude, leaving Stiles to talk to himself like that.

Derek left his notebook on the table, with the pencil in stuck the middle to mark the page. Stiles tries to push it out of the way with his elbow and it accidently falls off the table and opens on the floor. 

"Shit," Stiles mumbles to himself. He puts the plates on the table and goes to pick it up, but stops when he sees the open page.

Stiles assumed the notebook was something like a technophobe's Smartphone for Derek, that he writes important stuff in it, like attack plans and shopping lists and stuff like that. Apparently that's not it. He's been drawing in it. It's a black and white sketch of the Hale House, and it looks beautiful. It's not burnt or ruined. The porch looks polished, with a rocking chair next to the door, the windows are all lit and it all just looks so… homey. Despite the lack of colors, Stiles can tell that it's fall because of the blanket of leaves on the ground and the numerous shades Derek used. It's a wonderful drawing, but Stiles feels as though he's invaded something private and personal, like this is not for his eyes. He means to close the notebook and put it away, bends down to pick it up, and then he sees Derek's hand on it and Derek is bending next to him.

"I'm really sorry," Stiles blurts out, taking his hand away and straightening quickly. "It just fell and opened, really, I didn't mean to…" He mumbles, and he thinks for a second Derek won't believe him until he remembers that he can tell by his heartbeats.

"It's… It's okay." Derek says distantly. He looks at the drawing for a moment and then closes the notebook and puts it on the table beside him. "Really, it's fine." He says when he sees that Stiles is still staring at him. Derek is standing impossibly close to him, looking straight into his eyes.

It's been going on for a while now, this ping-pong ball of heat that's been passing itself between them. Stiles has felt it, deflected it, tried to ignore it, but it always ends up on his side of the table, which makes it seem like a one-sided game. But as Derek's eyes are boring into his with that impossible depth, Stiles realizes that lately he's begun to feel something more to it, more than just physical lust, a sort of crave in his guts, a throbbing, needing famish that he doesn't have a name for yet, that he's afraid to define. There's a moment of crushed tension between them and Stiles thinks that crave is about to take over him, thinks maybe he won't bash my head into the wall, but then the look in Derek's eyes softens and grows distant, and he takes a step back.

"Who taught you to draw like that?" Stiles asks just to occupy his mind with something. Derek hesitates for a second. "My mom, she… She used to draw and paint in her free time. Our house was filled with her canvases everywhere." He sounds wistful and longing to Stiles, though both his expression and his voice soften only ever so slightly. "She used to say it was the only thing that calmed her, that helped her put her thoughts into order. She'd let me sit with her and watch as she painted."

"It must have been great, watching her doing what she loves." Stiles says quietly.

"Yes." Derek says, "Yes, it was." And he actually smiles for a moment, a warm and kind smile that he would never allow himself near the rest of the pack. And Stiles, Stiles has to stare, because he never thought such a slight thing could change someone so drastically. The abrupt change to his whole appearance is marvelous and fascinating, almost mesmerizing. Stiles realizes what a stupid look he must have on his face only when Derek's frown returns, accompanied by a harsh look.

"So, uh. Let's eat!" Stiles says and rushes over to his seat. They sit down and start eating in silence.

"Stiles?" Derek says.

"Mmm?" Stiles hums with his mouth full.

"The rice is overcooked."

_ _

The house echoes and bleeds emptiness when Stiles walks in and crumples to the floor with his back against the door. That's what it feels like, at least, until he hears soft footsteps coming closer, and when he looks up, Derek is standing at the bottom of the stairs. Shit.

"I thought we agreed you were off-duty today," Stiles whispers, looking sideways.

"Stiles," Derek says, breathing in deeply, and it's not the usual pissed-off tone, it's different, consoling and slightly… broken.

"Scott told you, huh." He should've thought of that, should've known Scott would be too worried about everything to leave Stiles unprotected. Even at the moment, Stiles can't bring himself to resent him for that.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" Stiles says bitterly, still not looking at Derek. "I mean, why now? It was a long time ago. It's just a memorial service. Nothing less, nothing more. I'm really not in the mood for a chat, though, so…" He gets up and starts walking towards the kitchen, passing over Derek.

"Okay, just," Derek says very quietly, but doesn't finish. 

"What?" Stiles stops. He can almost hear the hesitation in Derek's silence. "What." He says, demanding this time.

Derek inhales deeply again. "It's just… your grief. It smells so fresh, I wonder if I…" Derek trails off, but Stiles gets what he's thinking of, who he's thinking of. He just stands there for a few moments with his back to Derek, staring at nothing and anything in front of him. None of them moves.

"It's the same every year." Stiles says abruptly, but his voice is quiet and distant. "Dad picks me and Scott up from school. We go to the memorial, we put flowers, and we say nothing. Not to the people who came, not to each other. Then he drops me off at home, goes to the station, locks himself in his office and tries to solve old cases. Comes back in the middle of the night. Then it's over till next year." 

It's just bits and pieces, really. Stiles doesn't say how his dad insists on dropping him off at school in the morning and then picking them up, even though Stiles could just come to the cemetery with the jeep. He doesn't tell Derek how eerie the silence is, how it can cut through him like a knife. He doesn't say his dad comes back smelling like cheap whisky, always coming to check Stiles' room before turning in, but he pretends to be sleeping when his door opens. Or how he can hear his dad crying, just a little, when he gets up to knock on his door but then changes his mind, every year. It's just bits and pieces, but Stiles feels like it's okay to say them.

Derek puts a hand on Stiles' shoulder, warm and secure but not demanding. He doesn't rush Stiles, doesn't say anything, and Stiles continues shakily after a while, "He tried staying with me the first couple of years, back when I was still a kid. But I'd just lock myself in my room and eventually he would go to his study and immerse himself in work and when he wouldn't notice I'd watch him from afar as he withered in his study, like he did when she was in the hospital and she…" Stiles chokes up, can't say anything else.

"I know. It's okay." Derek almost whispers, and squeezes Stiles' shoulder comfortingly, though very slightly. It's this gesture, the sincerity and empathy in his voice that finally break the pretence Stiles has been trying so hard to keep, not for Derek, but for himself. He cries quietly, almost soundlessly, the tears streaming down his face, cutting warm and painful trails over his cheeks. Derek doesn't say anything, but his hand remains steady on Stiles' shoulder the whole time, keeping him from shattering to a million pieces he'd never be able to put back together.

_ _

That night Stiles dreams of suffocation. It's been a long while since he had one of those. Every dream is a little different. Sometimes he's drowning, sometimes caught in a fire, sometimes buried. And sometimes, like this time, it's just the darkness and the excruciating need for air that is never satisfied. 

He finds himself deep under, fighting with all his bodiless might to take a breath. He thinks he hears voices, but they are muffled and distorted, as if they were coming from thousands of miles away, from a different dimension. Behind the voices he can hear the weak but constant beep that always accompanies his struggles for breath. He fights and aches for a gasp of air, but it's futile. The blackness is now accompanied with dots and sparks, there's a crescendo of the sensational pain Stiles feels through his entire dream-like existence, the quiet beep grows stronger and stronger until it covers up all other sounds, and then everything goes horribly silent all at once.

_ _

When Stiles wakes up the next morning, everything feels a little distorted, though he can't quite pinpoint the cause. He shakes it off, dismissing it as remnants of his disturbing dream, and gets up to get ready for school. His dad is already in uniform and ready to leave when Stiles comes down for a quick breakfast.

"Did you take your lunch?" Stiles yells from the kitchen.

"Yes," His father says unwillingly.

"Are you taking your pills?"

"Yes, Stiles, I'm taking my cholesterol pills! Jesus, you sound like your grandmother, back in her day." He says as he opens the door. "Good day!" The door slams and he's out, before Stiles manages to say he meant the anti-inflammatory pills for his wound or to wish him a good day, too.

When he gets to school, Stiles gets out of the jeep just in time to see Scott start going up the stairs. He hurries up to him, tapping him on the shoulder.

"Hey, man. Good morning." Scott says, and continues to climb the stairs.

Stiles follows him and starts talking as they walk. "Mornin'. So listen, I think the pills might have some weird side effects, but I'm not entirely sure." He says.

"What, your Adderall? You've been taking those since you were eleven. Have you increased the dosage or something?" Scott asks.

"No, not my Adderall! You know, the other pills. The MA pills." Stiles says quietly, because they've already reached the crowded halls.

" MA pills? What're those, something new?" Scott looks truly lost. Stiles sighs inwardly and wonders for the hundredth time how can his memory for details be this short.

"MA. Mountain Ash. You know."

"What's Mountain Ash?!" He's starting to sound a little annoyed, and Stiles stops in his tracks. He pulls Scott aside and looks him straight in the eye, perplexed. "Scott, come on. Mountain Ash pills. Against the bite. You know what I'm talking about."

"I really don't. Is this another one of your RPG games? What bite?"

"What bite? You know, alpha pack, werewolf bite, starting to sound familiar?" Stiles is beginning to freak out, "It fucking should, considering you are one!" 

This isn't like Scott. When Stiles sees the smile on his face, he's sure Scott's gonna start laughing and say he's just messing with him. But instead he says, "I'm a werewolf. Uh-huh. That's a good one. Stiles, have you been smoking pot again?"

"That was one time, one draft, and you know it!" Stiles says, momentarily thrown off by the old, embarrassing reference.

"I still can't believe your DC comics reading club gave you a joint and told you it was just tobacco." Scott chuckles, "I still can't believe you fell for it."

"I was thirteen!" Stiles throws his hands in the air. "And it was a Marvel reading club. It's not the point!" The bell rings, and Scotts starts to walk away. 

"Scott!" Stiles yells a little hysterically, and Scott turns. "You really have no idea what I'm talking about? The alpha pack, Derek's pack, werewolves, hunters, any of it?"

Scott looks at him, serious and a little pissed now, "Stiles, cut it. It's not funny anymore. Come on, we'll be late for class. Harris hates us enough as it is." And then he walks off, leaving Stiles panicked and mystified, but with not much choice except to follow.

_ _

By lunchtime, Stiles is convinced that he's officially gone insane. Either that or everyone in his life has decided to pull a really nasty prank on his expense. He tried to get Scott's attention in about a hundred different ways during morning classes, all of which were unsuccessful. He hasn't seen Isaac at all today. He even tried passing a note to Allison during math – "Scott's got lycanthropic amnesia HELP" – but she just knit her eyebrows at him and gave him a questioning look, leaving him even more distressed.

Now they're at the cafeteria, Scott all but ignoring Stiles as he fills up his tray. Stiles is too bewildered to eat. He's bouncing franticly up and down, and his eyes are darting everywhere across the hall, though he does not know what they're searching for. He just knows that if he stops moving, if he halts all activity for even a second, his terror will take over him completely, and then he'll be lost. Scott's already sitting at a table nearby, and Stiles is partially distracted by the fact that Allison is walking towards them, stroking Scott's shoulder affectionately as she sits down next to him.

"Wait, you two are back together?" Stiles blurts out, unable to control his mind, let alone his mouth. Allison's looking at him funny. Scott's looking at him funny. What the hell is going on, why is everyone acting like Stiles is the one that's behaving strange? 

"Stiles, we've been dating solid for almost a year." Scott says slowly and very cautiously, like he's afraid he's going to break Stiles if he's not careful. Stiles is afraid he might. "Seriously, man, what is with you today? You're starting to really freak me out. I'm starting to worry that you hit your head or something like that. Maybe we should take you to see a doctor?"

That is like a punch to the guts for Stiles. Because Scott, he realizes, is genuinely worried by his behavior. If he really has no idea what Stiles is talking about… Stiles can't stop to think about the ramifications of this. He can't be here anymore. He needs to get out of here.

"Listen, could you cover for me for the rest of the day?" Stiles asks Scott. "I know we have practice, but tell the coach I got really sick or something, okay?"

"Um, sure. It's not like we do anything but sit on the bench anyway." Scott says, though he still looks concerned. "Just… Get some rest, okay? And call me if you need anything."

"Thanks," Stiles says, his back already turned to them and his voice just a little cracked.

"I hope you feel better soon," Allison calls after him.

Stiles rushes out of the school and gets into his jeep. He turns on the radio on full volume and drives through town like a maniac. He takes the familiar turn into the forest, barely taking notice of the road as he keeps speeding up, until finally he gets to the Hale house. The house looks as burnt and ruined as ever. Derek doesn't live here anymore, but he told Stiles one afternoon, while Stiles was doing homework, that he doesn't spend much time in his loft. He said it felt too foreign, smelled too new and raw. Instead, he told Stiles, he spends almost all of his days here, sometimes training with Isaac or alone and sometimes just thinking.

Stiles gets out of the jeep, slamming the door violently behind him. "Derek? Derek, are you here?!" He calls, but there's no answer. A chill goes through his spine. He steps onto the porch. "Derek? Isaac? Derek!" somebody, just be here, he thinks, grasping wildly at this last straw of hope.

He walks into the house, but it's dead silent, and so each step he takes has a lonely echo to it. Stiles goes through the entire house before he sits down on the steps, leaning his head on his hands, and tries to focus. He saw Derek yesterday. What could have caused this? Stiles' thoughts are running in ten different directions as he attempts to find a logical explanation to all of this. Well, maybe not logical, but at least a satisfying explanation. There has to be one, a spell or a mental attack or something, he can find it, he just needs to think, think, think…

Stiles doesn't know exactly how long he's sat there, but eventually he notices it's starting to get dark. He gets up, but he doesn't go yet. He just stands there, suddenly cold, looking around him in the desperate hope to see Derek, Isaac, even Peter, anyone at all. But there's no one. He's alone and he doesn't know what to do or what to think anymore. He doesn't know anything anymore. Finally he walks outside, back to the jeep. He sucks in the crisp, spicy dusk air as loudly and as deeply as he can, but it still feels like he's choking.

He decides to go through Dr. Deaton's clinic, but it's already closed and Stiles doesn't know where he lives. He also takes a swing at Derek's loft, though he doesn't actually expect to find him there. Sure enough, he goes up to the door just to find a sign that says "A&O Design Studios" hanged on it. Which, seriously, what the fuck. This is a little too strange for Stiles to handle right now.

After that he goes back home, barely acknowledging his dad's welcome when he walks in. He climbs the stairs to his room and sits on the chair in front of his computer, ignoring the strain and exhaustion in his body. He starts to research, but he soon finds himself staring blankly at the screen, blinking repeatedly and eventually sliding down and falling asleep on the keyboard.

_ _

Reality is still blurred up with dreams when Stiles opens his eyes. He remembers fear and noise and flashes of light and darkness, though he can't remember what the dreams were about. He shuts his eyes tight, shaking a little, and when he opens them again he inhales deeply, and the world seems to steady itself a little.

"I'm glad you're feeling better, Mr. Stilinski." Stiles hears the familiar voice as he goes down the stairs. "Thank you, Scott." His dad says just as they both get into Stiles' vision. They're standing next to the door, his dad just about ready to leave.

"Hey, bro," Stiles says, "What're you doing here?"

"Um, we said we were gonna drive to school together a little early to finish our lab report. It's due today. Don't you remember?" Scott says and looks at him significantly, like he's supposed to read something more under those words. "Anyway, your dad says his injury is fully healed now. That's great!"

"He's just saying that to avoid his check-up next Wednesday. Which you're totally not getting out of, dad!" Stiles says as his dad starts to leave quietly. His dad just sighs as he closes the door behind him. Then the full meaning of this conversation hits Stiles, and he grabs Scott firmly by the arm and drags him to the kitchen.

"Ow, dude!" Scott protests, but Stiles doesn't let him go. 

"Scott, what are you?" He asks urgently. 

"A high school student?" Scott asks, confused. 

"Other than that?" 

"Um, a vet's assistant?" 

"And what else? Anything different?" Stiles asks impatiently. 

"You mean a werewolf?" He looks somewhat perplexed, like he doesn't understand why he's having this conversation, but Stiles doesn't care. He exhales loudly as an enormous wave of relief surges over him. Scott remembers. Everything is all right. Stiles' life is once again his own.

"Stiles? Is everything okay?" Scott asks.

"I'm… Yeah, everything's fine now." Stiles says, although it's not entirely true. The initial relief he felt dies down just enough for that small panicky voice in his head to appear, to ask the questions Stiles doesn't have an answer for – What happened? Did he have a very sharp, very lucid dream that was caused by the MA pills? What if he was hallucinating? And what will he do if it happens again? But he struggles to push those questions aside for now.

He doesn't want tell Scott about what happened, not yet. He doesn't want to worry Scott with half-resolved, unexplained things when they don't even have time to investigate. He decides to stop taking the pills for now, just in case, and see if maybe Dr. Deaton can offer an explanation.

"So, lab report!" Stiles says over-enthusiastically. He opens a drawer in the kitchen and grabs two energy bars, throwing one to Scott, and then they're out of the house.

The real reason Scott came over was so that Stiles doesn't drive to school "unprotected", as Stiles realizes during the ride, but they actually do have a report to rush out, which they manage just before the bell rings. Students start streaming into the lab. Isaac walks through the door and sits behind them.

"Morning," He calls out casually, and then leans towards them. "Derek said to make sure you remember the plan." Stiles refuses to acknowledge the ease that comes over him when he hears those words.

"The plan?" Scott repeats exasperatedly. "It's really not that hard. Jeez, he's so uptight sometimes."

Stiles tunes into reality again to realize he has no idea what they're talking about. "Wait, what plan?"

"Oh, great." Isaac sighs. 

"Don't you remember?" Scott asks him. Stiles thinks he probably looks lost, because Scott continues, "Isaac thinks he's got a lead, so he and Derek are going to try to pursue that, and you'll come with me to work in case it's just a decoy. It was your suggestion. Derek wasn't at all happy about it, but it's the best we could come up with. Are you tired or something? We agreed on this yesterday."

"What day is it?" Stiles asks suspiciously.

"Thursday, October 23rd." Scott answers carefully.

"No. No, it's Wednesday."

"No, it's Thursday." Isaac says amusingly, then turns to Scott. "Make him a bed in Deaton's office or somethin', will you? He looks like hell."

Stiles doesn't comment on this. He's too wrapped up in what this means. Not only has he spent a day in some weird-ass parallel reality, but it also made him miss a day here in the real world. Or at least, what he thinks is the real world.

He's no longer sure he can tell for certain.

_ _

"Well, this is certainly concerning." Dr. Deaton says. Stiles just finished telling him and Scott about his strange visit to amnesia planet. There's a twist to Stiles' stomach when he catches Scott's glance, because the way he's looking at him is like… well, like the other Scott looked at him, the Scott that didn't know anything about werewolves and thought Stiles hit his head. It's a look of worry, anxiety and a little… not fear, exactly, but it's the closest to it Stiles has seen from Scott in a long time. He does not want to be on the receiving side of that look.

"Well, first off, you did well to stop taking the pills for now." Deaton days, pulling Stiles out of his thoughts. "I know it's easy to get paranoid when something like this happens, but it's important that you don't panic. It's most probably an unexpected side effect, just like you thought. And although I haven't seen anything like this specifically before, it's not the first time I've seen strange influences that these things have on people."

"Really?" Stiles asks. "Care to share one? Because I could use someone else's bizarre troubles to laugh at."

Dr. Deaton's lips curve into a small smile, but he doesn't add anything on the matter. Instead he says, "Leave the pills with me. I'll have another look at them, check my sources for possible explanations and different combinations so that you can resume the treatment as soon as possible. Hopefully it started working already. Drink a lot of water. Try to do your own research, if it eases your mind. And get some rest."

"Alright," Stiles sighs, and takes the pills out of his pocket. "Thanks, Doc."

Scott taps Stiles on the shoulder as they get out, gives him another sidelong look before going back to work. Stiles decides to keep this thing as quiet as possible, for now.

_ _

The next few days are a living hell. Because, as Stiles soon realizes, his visit to parallel-world wasn't just a onetime thing; he's stuck in a loop. He understands quickly that he's spending one day in the non-supernatural reality – the mirror world, as he began to call it in his head –and one day in what he thinks of as his real life, with the pack and all the paranormality that follows, missing a day from each reality every time. When the realization hits him for the first time, on his second day in the mirror world, he shuts his eyes tight, covers his ears and stops breathing, trying to force himself to wake up. When that doesn't work, he runs to the bathroom and throws up the contents of his stomach, trembling helplessly on the floor for almost half an hour later, gasping for breath. Then he leaves school, ignoring Scott's urges to tell him what's wrong, and escapes to the safety of the woods to calm himself.

He spends his days trying to do some research, but there are so many different directions. He researches fey herbs and side effects, magical amnesia, oblivion spells, the werewolf scratch, but nothing quite fits, and it all just feeds his paranoia even more. He has to forcibly stop his mind every time it starts looking for connections that aren't there. He confides with Deaton on a non-mirrored day, and Deaton tells him again that he shouldn't panic, that these things might not go away immediately, that it may take time for it to flush out of his system. So he's left with no choice but to accept the continuous, never-fading fear and anxiety and edginess, and keep going.

_ _

Stiles finds himself sitting at his table at school, Scott sitting next to him and Allison leaning on his table, with only a vague vision of waking up and getting there. He's extremely tired, his thoughts are cloudy and disoriented, his body exhausted. He thinks the correct term for how he feels is "stretched"; then he realizes, somewhat encouragingly, that at least his mind is still clear enough to be able to make LOTR references.

"Stiles? Did you hear me?" Allison asks.

"Huh?"

"I asked what you got on the fifth question. I got 23.65, but I'm not sure if it's the right answer."

"Um…" Stiles opens his math notebook to see that he his homework is done, though he has no memory whatsoever of doing it. "Yeah, I got the same." He says and closes his eyes, pressing them down with his fingers as he tries to think coherently.

"You okay, man?" Scott asks.

"Yeah, just…" Stiles says without opening his eyes, "You know how sometimes your vision gets blurry on the edges?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, I have the same phenomenon with my brain right now. Let me know when the teacher gets here."

"Oh, no." Allison whispers, and Stiles opens his eyes.

Isaac walks into class and… Jesus fuck. Stiles shivers at the sight of him. He's wearing long sleeves, gloves and a scarf, even though it's really not that cold yet, but it doesn't help cover up his face. Under Isaac's sunglasses Stiles can see the blue-purple edges of a hideously black eye. It's spread out in patches all across his left cheekbone, fading only at his jaw line. His lower lip is red and swollen and his upper lip has a half-inch slash through it. 

He goes to a table at the far corner of class, and as he sits down Stiles can see him wincing, exhaling in pain at the sharp movement. Stiles tries hard to stop his brain from imagining what's hiding underneath his clothes. Isaac resettles his scarf, and just for a second Stiles can see a long, ugly cut on his throat, hanging dangerously close to his artery, where his pulse is beating.

It takes an effort for Stiles to stop gawking at Isaac and turn to look down at his hands instead. Underneath the horror and the concern, and beyond the nebulous function of his mind, the pieces click together – Isaac's dad is still alive; he's still beating the crap out of him; and Isaac is clearly not healing. Stiles feels the permanent dread that comes with the conclusion securing itself somewhere in the back of his mind.

"I wish there was something we could do," Allison whispers mournfully, pulling Stiles out of his train of thought back into this parallel version of reality.

"Isn't there?" Scott asks, looking up at her hopefully like she has all the answers in the world.

"I don't know. I asked Lydia about it once. She said one of the teachers approached the counselor about it, and she went to the authorities, but nothing happened. She also said she heard Isaac's dad has a really good lawyer, and besides Isaac would never admit to anyone that something was wrong, so it got caught up in bureaucracy." Her voice is very low, making sure no one else overhears their conversation. Stiles is about to ask her how Lydia knows all of this and why the hell hasn't anyone pulled Isaac out of that house by force, but then the door slams shut and the teacher walks in, forcing them to stop talking.

Later, at lunch, the three of them are sitting at a table together. They haven't renewed their morning conversation, and Stiles chooses not to bring it up again. Saying he's disturbed by what he saw with Isaac is really an understatement, and he doesn't really want to think about all the other things that are different in this reality. 

The mirror world seems to push it onto him, though, because just then Allison says, "Did you hear about Boyd?" Stiles' head jerks up.

"Who?" Scott asks.

"Boyd, the guy who worked at the ice rank. Heard he dropped out, took a full time job somewhere."

"How do you know all this stuff?" Stiles asks her. She answers with a quick motion of her head to her left, and Stiles follows the gesture with his eyes. A few tables away from them he sees Lydia, sitting extremely close to some guy Stiles doesn't really know. He registers with some surprise that the sight doesn't make his heart sink or his guts clench as it once would have. "Who's that?" He asks Allison casually.

"Her new victim. I stopped trying to remember their names shortly after Jackson moved. But we are still friends." She says.

"Hey," Scott says after a few seconds of silence. "Are we still going to the movies after school?"

"That's what we said." Allison answers, "Right, Stiles?" She looks at him.

With that sentence, it suddenly occurs to Stiles then that in this reality the three of them are somewhat of trio. He's filled with a gush of warmness towards the two of them, especially Scott, but also with awkwardness and discomfort. If there's anything Stiles is good at, it's feeling like the odd man out, whether he really is one or not.

Allison and Scott are both looking at him for an answer, but before he can respond there's a loud clash from the far end of the cafeteria. Suddenly there's a mess, everyone running to see what the fuss is about, including the three of them. There's already a circle of people they have to squeeze through, and then Stiles sees her. 

It's Erica. She's shaking uncontrollably on the floor. Stiles feels sick to his stomach seeing her helpless and fragile like that, when he's already gotten used to her being so strong. The coach has already reached the place and he's holding Erica gently on her side, putting his sweatshirt underneath her head to prevent injury. "Did anyone call 911?!" He yells.

"I did," A kid at the back calls.

It takes only about a minute for the seizure to die down, but it feels like forever. It's as though someone spilled a bucket of ice water on his head. Stiles feels so useless as he watches her flutter on the floor like that. He wishes there was anything he could do, but all he can do is stare and wait for it to be over.

"Stilinski, McCall!" The coach yells and pulls Stiles out of his haze, "Go wait for the ambulance outside and bring them here!" Stiles keeps staring at him holding Erica for a second, but then Scott grabs his arm and pulls him away. 

They get to the gate just as the ambulance is parking and the paramedics are getting out. They take them to the cafeteria, where Erica is now passed out in the coach's arms. The medics get her on a stretcher and are starting to roll her out when Stiles approaches the coach, "Coach, maybe I should go with her? To make sure she's alright?" The words come out of his mouth before he can even register them.

"What?" The coach knits his eyebrows, "Yeah, sure. If you say so."

Stiles follows the medics. He gets into the back of the ambulance with Erica. He holds her unconscious hand through the ride, looking at her now peaceful face. He doesn't really know why he's doing this. Even in his reality, he and Erica are not exactly friends. They shared a few common fights, along with the pack, and maybe a laugh or two, but that's it. They're not even that close. Still, Stiles just couldn't bear the thought of leaving her alone when she's so vulnerable and fragile.

They get to the hospital, and he walks her through the hall until they take her to recovery and check-ups. It is only so many minutes later, after Scott's mom already came and reassured him everything's alright, when he's out of the hospital and breathing the autumn air, that he realizes his eyes are moist with tears.

_ _

Stiles is… drunk. He knows it by the slight pressure in his ears, by the manic-depressive bee that's buzzing hyperactively around in his head, by the way the trees around him seem to dance just a little. But mostly, he knows it by the half-empty bottle of whisky that's dangling in his left hand.

Other than the fact that right now he's drunk, and that he's apparently in the woods, everything is jumbled up. Not in an "Oh my God I'm so wasted I can't remember how I got here ain't that funny?!" kind of way, but in general. The days have begun to merge into one another, like the colors of a painting that's been splashed with water. Whole chunks of Stiles' memory are now missing, varying from a few minutes to full hours, and the parts he does remember are misty and tangled up together. He's tired all the time, and his body is sore and aching like during a disease, like it's taking all the energy out on fighting something off and even the simplest tasks are a huge effort. His mind is foggy and unclear. He has lost the capacity to know when one day starts and when one ends, no longer always knowing when he's in the mirrored world and when he's in the non-mirrored world. He doesn’t know how long ago this whole nightmare started. The only thing he knows clearly is that no matter which version of reality he's in, he feels alone and afraid all the time, more so than he has since his mother's death.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Derek's voice shocks him from behind. Stiles jumps up and drops the bottle to the ground. Derek grabs it and throws it hard into the woods, where it disappears so far Stiles can't even hear it breaking. Derek turns to glare at him furiously. Oh, Stiles thinks underneath his shock and his drunkenness, so this is a non-mirrored day. Good to know.

"How could you just sneak out under Scott's nose like that? Do you know how panicked he is? He called me practically hysterical." Derek takes a step towards him with each sentence, until he's so close Stiles is pretty convinced he's going to wring his neck. Derek's eyes are flaming with anger.

"'m sorry," Stiles mumbles, recognizing through the haze in his brain that it's a good place to start. "To my defense, I have no memory of doing such a thing."

"Oh, fuck," Derek says, then grabs Stiles by the shirt and drags him away. "Come on, let's get out of here." He says like Stiles has a choice. "I'll yell at you tomorrow, when you're sober enough to actually register what I'm saying and hopefully when it really, really hurts your head with the hangover you're sure to have."

After just a few steps, Stiles sees the Camaro parked in the middle of the road. Derek more-or-less hauls him in, probably with a little more force than necessary, and then walks over to the driver's seat. He starts the car wordlessly, eyes fixed on the road, jaw clenched tightly.

"Don't pout like that, jeez. It makes you look like a cartoon, see, with the eyebrows and all that." Stiles says in a slurry voice.

Derek keeps pouting when he says in a flat voice, "That was a really stupid thing you did, you know that?"

"'m sorry!" Stiles practically whines, "Man, why are you so… Oh my god, were you worried about me?" Derek snorts, but doesn't answer. "You were! You so were!" It dawns on Stiles way slower and way more abruptly than it would have had he been sober. It fills him with stabs of regret for ditching Scott, even if he doesn't remember doing it, but also with a strangely content feeling.

"You and me, Derek," He says calmly, letting the whisky slip its influence through his lips, "We're like the moon and the sun."

"Oh, great," Derek grunts sarcastically, "You're a philosophical drunk. Wonderful."

"Think about it. We're two things that shouldn't be attracted to each other, but are."

"You do realize that sentence made no scientific sense, right?" Derek doesn't take his eyes off the road, and he still sounds tired and pissed.

"I'm not talking about science here!" Stiles says, exasperated. "Honestly, Derek, where is the little boy in you? I'm talking about the way the sun and the moon interact. Like the way they linger in the sky for as long as possible, to bathe in each other's light." Stiles is quoting his mother. She loved old myths and legends of the sun and the moon. She used to tell him those stories when he couldn't sleep.

"Shut up, Stiles." Derek growls.

But the whisky is blurring his better judgment, his embarrassment, "See, why are you always like that? If you'd just get out of your anger-and-gloom corner for a second and consider- -"

"You know what, Stiles, maybe you're right." Derek cuts him off and glares at him for a second, even though he hasn't stopped the car, "We are like the sun and the moon – every time we clash, there's darkness."

Stiles thinks fuzzily that however he got into the woods, he must've gotten in pretty deep, because it feels like a forever of silence passes between them until they reach the outskirts of town. He glances at Derek, and despite Derek being so mad at him, Stiles can't help but relax a little at the sight of him there. Since this whole thing started, there is a significant part of Stiles that is always edgy and slightly hysterical, but that part seems to grow somewhat smaller when he's with Derek. He doesn't know if it's because Derek's mere presence is kind of like his proof for the existence of what he believes to be his real life, or because he's absent from the mirror life, or if maybe it's because of… other reasons. He haven't had the time or the strength to put his thoughts and feelings into order, to call them by name and try to deal with them, but he knows how much closer he and Derek have come in the past weeks, before this nightmare began, and all the things he found in Derek that balance him. It makes him feel fear and want and warmness all at the same time, a longing for something he has yet to define.

"D'you know you're my anchor?" Stiles blurts out suddenly, continuing his train of thought in words without even noticing.

"You're already human, Stiles, you don't need an anchor." Derek says wearily.

"Not on humanity, on… on life. You know, this life. On me, this me, the one that's here, as opposed to… there." It makes sense in Stiles' alcohol-infused head.

"If you want to be philosophical, at least speak in fully formed sentences."

"'m not being philosophical." Stiles complains, "I'm telling you that when I'm at the mirror reality, the one without you, you're my anchor to my real reality… or something." The words are hard to force out, they stick in his throat like his mind is fighting him not to say them, and Stiles wishes he hadn't started this conversation.

"Stiles, what exactly are you saying? Be as clear as possible." Derek's voice sounds alarmed, urgent, so Stiles tries his best to answer. 

"I have days that are like, you know, an alternative reality. Kind of like visions, but not visions, exactly…" He trails off.

Derek turns the wheel sharply to the right, stops the car on some house's garage, and turns to look sternly at Stiles, "What?!"

_ _

Stiles is at school, sprawled on his desk. His eyes are closed, but it feels like he's being watched. He opens his eyes and… oh. He is being watched. By the entire class. Some teacher he doesn't recognize is staring at him from not too far. Scott's worried puppy face is hovering next to his, and he calls, "Stiles? Stiles! Are you listening?"

"What?" Stiles croaks. He tries to remember how he got there. He was in the car with Derek a minute ago. They were… talking. It was important. Why can't he remember?

"Jesus, Stiles, you scared me! You suddenly got all vague and drifted off and started mumbling… Stiles?!" Scott calls his name again, probably because Stiles feels his eyes closing and his head dropping. A sharp pain shoots through his brain and there's a soft, familiar beep in the back of his mind. Tiny spots of color decorate the blackness of his closed eyes, and through them he can slowly decipher Derek and the inside of the Camaro again.

"Stiles, listen to me carefully," Derek's voice is clearer than his face, "Whatever it is, you need to find your way back to the surface, do you hear me? Snap out of it right now!"

Stiles wants to say that he doesn't understand, but he accidentally opens his eyes and he sees Scott's face again, closer to his as he practically yells, "Stiles, snap out of it!" he's shaking Stiles' shoulder and it hurts. Everything hurts. Stiles' vision grows even blurrier, he can't see Scott's face clearly anymore. He can barely make out Scott opening his mouth again, only this time his tone is calmer and more pleading, and it's not his voice, it's Derek's, "Stiles, follow my voice. Come back. Resurface. Just follow my voice." So stiles tries to listen, tries to find the path and follow it, even though everything is just dots of light in his eyes and Derek's voice is growing weaker in his ears. He gives it the very last of his powers, not letting go of the voice that is his string in the maze, and sees a flash of light before he finally gives in and there's nothing anymore.

_ _

The first thing Stiles notices as he comes to, even before opening his eyes, is the throbbing pain that is burning through his entire body like vicious flames. The second thing he notices is the dry, urgent thirst that is sitting in the back of his throat.

"Stiles, can you hear my voice?" He opens his eyes weakly. Derek's face is close to his, speaking volumes in a wordless language Stiles is only beginning to decode. Derek has both hands firm on Stiles' shoulders. Scott's concerned, desperate face is hovering closely over Derek's shoulder.

"Derek…?" Stiles manages, his voice raspy, protesting its use. Derek lets out a sigh of relief and, to Stiles' astonishment, closes the gap between them and embraces him while Scott chokes out quietly, "Oh, Thank goodness." Then he yells out, "Guys, he's alright!" and Stiles vaguely wonders who he's talking to.

Derek's holding him very gently, and even though it still hurts, Stiles doesn't want him to let go. But Derek pulls away after a moment, allowing Scott to lean directly in front of Stiles, grip the chair he's sitting on with both hands beside Stiles' arms and look him straight in the eye. "We've got you. You're okay now." Scott says with that broken security that Stiles knows so well, and Stiles asks himself how can he know for sure, how can he know if it really is okay or if this is all still just another part of the loop. Everything feels sharper, realer somehow, less blurry and unfocused, despite the sheer exhaustion flooding his entire body, but is that really an indication? What if his mind just playing tricks on him, and he still hasn't made it out? How can he check?

"Hey, shh, relax," Derek says, softer than Stiles ever heard him, and Stiles realizes only then that he's hyperventilating. "Don't think about anything right now. Just keep your focus on us. We'll explain everything, I promise. But right now we need to get you treated. Scott, let's get him out."

Stiles hasn't paid much attention to his hands until now, but they're apparently tied to the arms of the chair he's sitting on, because Scott and Derek each fumble with one of his wrists. When they're done with the ropes Stiles attempts to push himself up, but the effort is making black spots dance in his vision and a wave of nausea and pain rush through him.

"Don't even think about it," Derek warns just as Stiles is about to make a second attempt. 

Scott urges forward, but Derek says, "I'll carry him out, you call the sheriff." Then in a gentle but quick motion, as if Stiles was as light as a pillow, Derek lifts him up. He has one hand under Stiles' knees and another on his back, so Stiles' head is on Derek's shoulder. He would protest on the whole carrying business any other day, but he doesn't have it in him to feel embarrassed at the moment and his legs feel too weak to carry him, anyway. So instead he closes his eyes and fists his hand weakly in Derek's jacket, secretly wishing to stay this way for as long as possible. Stiles hears Scott's voice talking quietly and reassuringly somewhere next to them, and wonders what is he talking about with his dad, but he doesn't manage to ask.

Stiles knows instantly when they're out of wherever they were. Firstly, because he immediately goes from warm to freezing, and secondly, because of the sweet evening air that touches his skin. He draws in a deep breath, and the air is crisp and cool with an aroma of pines and rain to it, and just a slight hint of fire, too. He opens his eyes to see the sky in its darkening stage of early evening, sun gone, cerulean and violet melting to a deeper indigo, stars beginning to shine. It's a full moon, he notices. No, not full, but almost, a night before or a night after. Stiles fills his lungs with the flavor of the air again, and it chills him on the inside. He feels Derek's hand moving slightly to his lower back, and he questions the movement for a second, but then he feels Scott's hands wrapping a jacket around his harshly shaking shoulders. Scott's hands linger on his shoulders just for a second, squeezing ever so softly before letting go. The gesture makes Stiles' chest tighten.

They get to the Camaro after a few minutes. Scott opens the back seat door and hurries in, and then Derek lowers Stiles gently into the car, where he slumps against Scott's shoulder weakly, as he has a hard time keeping his body in an upright position. Derek goes to the driver's seat and they start the ride in silence. Stiles can already feel his eyelids trying to close, his fatigue taking over his mind, but he tries to fight it, terrified of what will happen when he wakes up again.

"Did you text your mom?" Derek asks.

"Yeah, they're ready for us." Scott says. Stiles can't keep his eyes open anymore, so he focuses on their words in his attempt to stay awake, but he already knows it's a losing fight. The smooth drive and the familiar smell of the Camaro remind him of the last time he was here, of his drunken conversation with Derek. "Derek…?" He croaks out, his mouth speaking out his memories before he can stop, "We're not an eclipse, are we..?" There's a beat of silence, then Derek mumbles something back quietly, but Stiles can't quite make out the words, his awareness slipping away as everything blurs.

For the next hour or so, Stiles' mind drifts in and out of focus, so he remembers only flashes – a distinctive, excruciating squeeze of his shoulder that jolts him back to consciousness, where he sees his dad's pained but relieved face hovering over him; being rolled through the halls of the hospital, the white fluorescents flashing in his eyes as he passes them; waking up unfocused and disoriented in a dimly lit room with an IV stuck up his arm. Hysteria lurked at the back of his mind and took over every time he regained his focus, only to be subdued every time Derek wandered into his vision, assuring Stiles just by being there that he still hasn't crossed realities.

Eventually Stiles comes to completely, still exhausted and aching, throat still painfully dry, but otherwise coherent. He's half sitting-half lying in a hospital bed in the same room, now fully lit, still with an IV dripping fluids into his bloodstream. Scott's sitting next to his bed with his head between his hands, not noticing that Stiles woke up, and Derek's sitting in a chair a little farther, at the corner of his bed, eyes on Stiles' as he welcomes him back with a nod. Stiles turns his eyes back to Scott.

"Hey, man," He says quietly. Scott lifts his head abruptly, then gets up and tackles Stiles with a crushing hug. It hurts, but not exactly in a bad way, and Stiles knows what it must've cost Scott to hold it back until now. "Thought I'd lost you," Scott says almost soundlessly as he goes back to his sit.

"Yeah, so did I," Stiles whispers in return, though he doesn't know if he's talking about Scott or about himself. "Where's my dad?" He asks.

"Getting Deaton." It's Derek who answers. "We talked to Deaton and he wants to examine you himself. Besides, he said you might be somewhat disordered, maybe need some explaining done."

"I'd say so," Stiles says, then thinks of something. "Wait, does my dad…?"

"Yeah, we told him everything." Scott says, "Two days after your disappearance." 

"We owed him at least that," Derek says quietly.

Stiles' mind is processing slowly. So his dad knows? How much, exactly? Two days after what disappearance? Stiles is about to ask, but then the door opens and Mrs. McCall walks in with a plastic cup filled with water, followed by Dr. Deaton and Stiles' dad. Seeing his dad's expression makes something catch in Stiles' throat, something that threatens to release itself when his dad walks over and hugs him shortly and wordlessly. Then he lets go of Stiles and stands next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Good to see you awake and functioning, Stiles," Scott's mom says warmly as she hands him the water, "We've taken care of your dehydration and stabilized the state of your body, so you can go ahead and drink." Stiles does, slowly, and it's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted, finally calming down the dessert in his throat. He stops after about half a cup, though, when a wave of nausea hits him. It's probably obvious on his face, because Mrs. McCall says, "Whoa, yeah, take it easy. You've been deprived of regular, healthy conditions for six days, after all. Your body will require getting used to these conditions now."

"Six days?" He asks, confused.

"Let me examine you first, then we'll talk," Dr. Deaton walks over. He takes a look at the medical chart attached to Stiles' bed, then pulls out a small flashlight and flashes into each of Stiles' eyes, tells him to focus on his finger while he moves it around, clicks his fingers in several distances from Stiles' ears and borrows Mrs. McCall's stethoscope to listen to Stiles' breathing and heartbeat. "Well, he's clean." He says finally.

"How can a standard check-up tell you whether he has remnants of magic in his system or not?" Derek grunts.

"You'll be surprised how much one can tell from a 'standard check-up', when one knows what to look for."

"Um, explanation time?" Stiles interrupts, "Please?"

Dr. Deaton sighs. "Why don't you tell me what is the last thing you remember, before Derek and Scott found you tonight. It'll give me a good look on where you stand."

"Um, before… I was with Derek in his car, I was…" he glances up nervously at his dad, "well, embarrassing to say, but I was drunk, we talked about the sun and the moon and then he was telling me something about finding my way back to the surface? And then there was Scott, but not Scott-Scott, Regular-Person-Scott, and then Derek said to follow his voice…" It's pointless. He's not making any sense. He can see it on their faces.

"What?" Derek sounds confused.

"His thoughts and memories might still be a little jumbled," Deaton tells them reassuringly. "Stiles, it sounds like parts of what Derek said tonight to pull you out of the spell's grip got mixed up with your flow of events."

"What? No, I'm not- -" Stiles starts to argue, because his memories are jumbled, but not in the way Deaton describes. Then he deciphers everything Deaton said, "Wait, what spell?"

"Stiles," Derek says quietly, searching Stiles' eyes, "Do you remember the last day I was at your house? The day of your mother's memorial?"

"Yes," Stiles whispers, a lump in his throat as his dad strengthens the grip on his shoulder.

"That night, after your dad got home, the Alpha pack created a distraction. I fell for it, left your house unguarded for the rest of the night. The next day, no one knew where you were."

"They captured Isaac and tortured him," Scott says, "We thought we were doing the right thing by going after him. We didn't think…"

Stiles can hear the guilt in their voices, the way they're beating themselves up over it. He hasn't heard the full story yet, but knowing these two, he's pretty sure it's uncalled for. He's so stunned by what they're telling him, though, and they continue before he even has a chance to fully process.

They tell him everything that's happened since that day: How they searched and searched, but couldn't find a trace; how Isaac could only remember fragments from being captured, but he remembered something being said about a spell that would be completed on the full moon; how they told his dad; how the common enemy brought them to combine forces with Allison's father; how with his help they got onto a possible location, an abandoned plant that went deep underground; how they managed to raid that plant with the help of some of Argent's less psychotic friends; and how their suspicions of the spell Isaac mentioned were verified when they found Stiles in a coma-like state, sitting in the midst of an enormous rune circle.

"There was a circle?" Stiles says weakly, "Good to know, I didn't notice, I should really pay more attention to my surroundings- -"

"They were trying to make you forget," Dr. Deaton interferes for the first time in the conversation. "It was a very powerful, very specific spell of amnesia. The subject is kept in a magical trance-like condition, which is what kept the damage to your body so unnaturally minimal. This state allows the caster to make the subject forget specific details, like people or even just relationships, and then reshape the memories to his or her will. But it has to be sealed on a full moon. It doesn't seem to have left any permanent influence, which I have to say is quite astounding, even if the full moon's only tomorrow."

"In a way, Peter was right," Scott says, "They wanted to turn you, they just wanted to make sure you wouldn't have any allegiances to anyone else first."

"So everything I've been experiencing since the memorial service… All those days in the realities' loop… it didn't actually happen?" Stiles thinks aloud.

"What? What are you talking about?" Scott asks.

"I wasn't just unconscious. My mother's memorial day – it's not the last day I remember. That's what I was trying to say earlier."

"Tell me." Deaton says, looking at him intensely. So Stiles tells them. About that first day when Scott didn't remember and Derek was nowhere to be found, about everything being "okay" the day after, about realizing he's in a loop and about slowly losing his grip on his own reality. He tries to keep it all as neutral as he can, tries to tone down his emotions, his helplessness, even as he feels them leaking through his voice.

"A phantom world," Dr. Deaton says when Stiles is finished, "Not one, but two of them, coexisting, created by your subconscious. Fascinating. But how…? Oh." Realization hits his face.

"What 'oh'? You know what might've caused this?" Scott asks. Everyone around the room looks confused but Deaton.

"Maybe the immunity pills he was taking had something to do with it?" Derek asks.

"I believe so," Dr. Deaton answers, confirming what Derek said and Stiles thought. "The magical attributes of the pills must've collided with the spell. That's also probably why it didn't have any permanent impact," Stiles is somewhat disturbed by the intrigued look on his face as he continues, "But I dread to think what might've happened had the spell been sealed properly."

Stiles shivers at the thought and pushes it quickly aside. He wants to put this story behind him. "So other than finding me serving as the centerpiece of a giant floor painting, anything else happened tonight that I need to know about? What about the Alpha pack?"

"Killed, every last one of them." Derek says flatly.

"Erica and Boyd…?" He asks, and fears the answer.

"Both fine. The healing will take a little time, but… they'll be fine." Stiles feels the relief rushing over him at those news. He closes his eyes, lets out a sigh of ease.

"Okay," his dad says suddenly, and moves from Stiles' side. He's been so quiet through all the supernatural bullshit, Stiles almost forgot he was there. "You've done your catching up, now I'd like a word with my son." He holds the door open. "Alone, please. Take your supernatural hearing to the other side of the hospital or something." Scott and Derek both give him a final nod, then everyone leaves and his dad closes the door, hovering next to it as he searches for words. Stiles decides to make it easier on him.

"I'm sorry you had to find out like this, dad," He says, but he can't form eye contact with him.

"That's not what bothers me right now, I'm just glad you're back."

"Okaaay," Stiles is somewhat taken aback, but he doesn't question the lack of anger. "Good. Because I'm okay, really. Everything's back to normal. We're safe." He says it to reassure, but he doesn't feel it.

"That's just it, though," his dad says, "You're not, are you? You'll never be, as long as you keep yourself wrapped up in this business. There's always going to be something else." He rushes it all out, like it hurts him, like he's ripping off a band aid.

"Dad, please don't- -" Stiles doesn't want to hear it, but his dad raises a hand to stop him. "No, Stiles, I need to say this. I don't like that you got caught up in this. I don't like seeing you in a hospital after you got kidnapped by some crazy group who came out of a freaking movie. I don't like that you lie to me and run around risking your life when you can't heal like them, you don't posses their inhuman strength or speed or stamina." 

Suddenly his dad stops pacing by the door and walks over to him, embraces him tightly and Stiles suddenly feels like he's eight again, before his mom died, when it seemed like everything that's not right in his life would fix itself if he just gave into his father's embrace. "I don't like it," his dad says softly, "But I've also never been prouder."

After a few seconds he releases Stiles awkwardly, "I'm going to take care of your discharge papers. Melissa says you don't need to stay overnight, so we'll be home within an hour, I hope." Then he's gone, leaving Stiles to stare at the door in awe, feeling warm and grateful and extremely fortunate.

_ _

By the time they get home, it's the middle of the night and Stiles is so exhausted he almost drops to sleep on the couch in his week-old clothes, but his dad drags him up, forces him to take a quick shower and helps him into bed. It reminds Stiles of a reversed situation, when his dad got injured. He's only beginning to wrap his mind around the idea that it wasn't long ago at all, even though it seems like a lifetime away.

His dad puts a glass of water on Stiles' bedside table. "Is there anything else you need?"

"Can you open the window?" Stiles asks.

"I… yeah, sure." His dad eyes him suspiciously, but he goes to the window and opens it. "Good night. Call me if you need anything." Then he closes the door. Stiles waits for a full minute after he hears his dad's door close, then props himself up a little on the pillows and whispers, "Derek?"

Sure enough, Derek comes in through the window after a few seconds. "Oh my God, I knew you were out there, you creepy-ass stalker."

"I just wanted to make sure you got home okay," Derek grunts quietly as he hovers around Stiles' bed. 

"Holy hell, I called you a creepy-ass stalker and you didn't even tell me to shut up. You must've really missed me. Either that, or I really look like crap and you feel sorry for the poor ill human."

"Yeah, it's indeed a shock," He says flatly, but Stiles thinks his eyes are a little playful. He's beginning to pick up on Derek's hidden moods. "Plus you really do look terrible."

"Why, thank you, you have such a way with words. Quit pacing like that and sit down, you're driving me crazy." Derek looks like he's about to argue, but then his expression changes and he sits on the edge of the bed.

Stiles notices his hand resting close to his face. "I'm glad we got Boyd and Erica back okay."

"Yes, we were very lucky," Derek says, looking away, and Stiles hears it, the same haunted tone he heard at the hospital, like he's not convinced, like he's still stuck inside the guilty corner of his mind.

Stiles stays quiet for a moment, then says, "Don't stick to what might've happened, to what you couldn't do." Derek's eyes fly to find Stiles'. When they meet, Stiles sees the recognition on Derek's face, and he knows Derek remembers that Stiles gets how it feels. Derek nods at him, a tiny thing. Stiles thinks, or perhaps hopes, that he sees some of the tension leave Derek's eyes with that nod.

They say nothing else, and Stiles' eyelids close down on their own. He's so tired. He's already drifted off when he feels Derek get up to leave, which might excuse the way his hand catches Derek's wrist without his brain's permission. But he doesn't want Derek to leave him, doesn't think he can deal with it right now, with the racing of his mind and the poisonous voice of doubt and paranoia that has been his too-loyal companion through this thing. He doesn't let go even as Derek sits back down soundlessly.

When he's a second from falling asleep, Derek mumbles something, two words whispered too low for Stiles to catch.

_ _

The room is flooded with sunlight when Stiles wakes up, but he fights to keep his eyelids closed for just a few more seconds. He slept better than he has in a very long time, which shocks him for a second until he remembers the two sleeping pills Mrs. McCall made him take right before they left the hospital. His body feels a little weak, some small level of pain still very much alive through it, but it has reduced significantly. Eventually he flutters his eyes open, and finds the room empty.

Immediately his mind jumps to full motion, running ahead of all logical thinking. He pushes himself frantically out of bed, looking around the room desperately. His vision begins to tunnel, his breath picking up speed as he calls out, "Derek?? Derek!" For one horrible second that lasts forever, Stiles is convinced that he's alone once again. Then he feels a light touch at his shoulder, and turns swiftly around to see Derek's concerned face behind him.

"I, I just… Don't do that, you… infuriating sourwolf!" Stiles shouts and stomps his feet, the tornado of panic in his chest beginning to subside.

"I'm sorry, hey," Derek holds his shoulders and searches for his eyes, and Stiles realizes he's trembling. "I'm sorry I scared you. Your dad just walked in to check on you, I didn't want him to find me here."

"My dad… is it that early?"

"Actually, it's noon. He came by on his lunch break. You slept through the whole morning. He put this on your desk," Derek leads him towards the chair and hands him a paper, then sits on the bed himself. 

Stiles gapes at the paper, grinning, "Oh my God, he enlisted me to a firearm training course?! I have the best dad. In the world. Seriously." 

Derek smiles a little. After a moment he says, "Yeah. Anyway, sorry about all that. I didn't mean to be such a… what? Infuriating sourwolf?" He raises an eyebrow, his face otherwise unchanging, but Stiles hears the joke in his voice.

"Shut up, I have fantastic insults, you don't get to mock me just because of this one, its morning, I just woke up."

"Uh-huh." Derek says in the same I'm-not-amused that Stiles suspects means I'm-actually-really-amused tone. "Like I said, it's noon."

"Mornin' in my world, and that's the only thing that counts. Pass me the water." Derek does, and Stiles gulps it down slowly. "Well, I'm gonna wash my face and brush my teeth and come back wittier than ever. Stay tuned." As Stiles washes the sleep away, he remembers something from the night before.

"Hey, didn't you tell me something last night? Right before I fell asleep?" He asks when he comes back to the room. Derek looks at the floor and doesn't answer.

"Yo, earth to Derek? What did you say?" Derek's refusal to answer makes Stiles want to know all the more. "What, you think the floor's gonna save you? I slept for like ten hours straight or something, my mind's not pudding anymore, I'm just going to keep firing at you until you answer."

"Stiles," Derek grunts, but doesn't look at him, "Just give it a rest. You weren't even supposed to catch that. You wouldn't want to hear it, anyway." Stiles thinks about that for a moment, and suddenly he has an idea what Derek might've said. Two whispered words Stiles wouldn't like hearing. It hits him like a snake's sting.

"Oh my God, Derek, did you say you're sorry?" Derek's silence and the look on his face are an echoing confirmation. Anger and frustration climb their way through Stiles, because Derek was right, but now that he has heard it, Derek's going to hear what he has to say to it. "That is the single most idiotic thing I've heard you say, and that's a really long list. No, scratch that, it's the single most infuriating thing I've heard you say, and that's an even longer list, it has its own facebook page and everything- -"

"Stiles- -"

"No no no, you don't get to Stiles me, you're going to hear this. You think any of this has anything to do with you? That's downright insulting. When Scott got bit, I made a choice. Did I know what I was getting into? Probably not. But I could guess, I speculated, I'm a great speculator. And I made that choice still. And ever since that day, I've been making choices, knowing their possible consequences, thinking them over. Every single time." 

Derek's looking at him intently from where he's sitting, like he's absorbing Stiles' every word, following with his eyes as Stiles paces angrily across the room. "Do I have regrets? Maybe some. Does it scare the shit out of me? Definitely. Am I tired of this? Sometimes. Am I sorry we got swept into this mess? I don't know. I don't like pondering about what ifs too much, we are where we are and we should deal with it, that's how I see it. But don't you dare come in here with your gloom and your guilt and tell me you're sorry like I got dragged into this against my will, you don't get to steal all the credit like that. Because the bottom line is that even if I could go back, I wouldn't change that choice I made at the beginning, and I would still make the same choices along the way. Even now, when I'm standing here yelling at you after all the shit that's happened, I'm not even one hundred percent sure you're real and I don't even ca- -"

He doesn't get to finish that sentence, because Derek's lips are on his before he can even register it, his hands pinning Stiles to the wall next to where he was pacing just a second ago. The kiss is frantic, fierce and demanding and desperate, Derek moaning into his mouth. "I'm real," Derek pants as he parts their lips but keeps their foreheads connected, looking directly into Stiles' eyes with depth and intensity, "I'm right here." Derek's got a hand on his shoulder and another on his waist, and Stiles fists his hands in Derek's shirt as Derek leans back in and resumes the kiss, still forceful and swift, like it's a matter of life and death, almost like he thinks it's the last time he'd be allowed to do it. Stiles tries to move his lips and tongue to match Derek's experienced movements, investing all of himself into this newly tasted flavor that makes his guts clench and his insides twist with need.

"Fuck, I should," Stiles manages as they part to take a breath, "I should yell at you more often." Derek scoffs out a laugh, just a small thing, but it makes Stiles shiver.

This time it's Stiles who leans in for more, breaths Derek in as he connects their lips again, and he tries his best to make it softer, gentler, take his time as he explores this new universe of possibilities. He moves his tongue inside Derek's mouth, gently and carefully, matches the movements of his lips to Derek's as they keep getting closer and closer, touching everywhere. He has just enough room in his mind to wonder whether or not he's doing it right, even though most of the room is occupied either by the drunkenness that apparently comes with kissing or by the way his body is reacting, by the fact that his dick is already half-hard. 

They go on like this, slowly and thoroughly. Stiles dares to try a soft suck at Derek's lower lip, and gets a sharp but brief bite at his own lower lip in return, and it makes him sigh out of breath and chase after Derek's lips when they part. Derek's tightening his grip on Stiles' waist more and more as they go. When Stiles moans softly into his mouth, he swears to himself it's only ten percent out of pain. Okay, maybe fifteen. Twenty, tops.

Derek picks it up, loosens his grip instantly and pulls away from him, but there's no way Stiles is letting him stop now, he wouldn't be able to take it, it would break him completely and leave him wide open. So he pulls himself closer to Derek, chases after him for small, frantic kisses on his jaw and neck in order to prevent him from saying anything. "No, I," Stiles pants in between, "Don't pull away, I, please, just tell me, tell me what you want."

Derek's body tenses a moment and then relaxes. He moves his hand from Stiles' shoulder down along Stiles' back, very gently, and pulls Stiles closer. He lets out a cool sigh behind Stiles' ear and whispers hoarsely, "I think your body's still weak for what I want." Which, Jesus fuck, if Stiles wasn't hard already, this probably would've done it. Stiles is glad Derek's holding him close, because even though his back is still supported by the wall behind him, Stiles wouldn't trust his knees not to buckle without the stabilization of Derek's touch. Derek slides his hand lower on Stiles' back, under his shirt, and the warmth and security of it spreads through Stiles like a wave of energy. Derek lowers his hand just a little more, just tugging at the rubber of Stiles' boxers, before he stops. Stiles' cock twitches.

Stiles has never heard Derek talk like that, never seen him act like that, aggressive and raw in a way that's somehow still so gentle, and it makes something in his stomach twitch and ache for more, for Derek to let go of his final guards and just act as he wants. He wants to say something, to do something, but as he racks his brain for what, Derek continues to whisper, "But as for what you want…"

Then he moves his other hand from Stiles' waist and slips it under his boxers, too, playing with the rubber a little and pressing gently over his hipbone as he goes. He stays there for a few seconds, rubbing circles on Stiles' hipbone with his fingers, then swiftly and without warning he grips firmly at Stiles' erection. Stiles gasps and moans, eyes glazed and vision a little blurry as he looks directly into the pools of Derek's green eyes. "Oh my God, Derek, I- -" Derek moves forward to bite his lip and shuts him up with a quick slide of hand, up and down along Stiles' dick where he's already wet with precome. 

"You don't know how long…" Derek whispers in his ear, and Stiles wants to answer that, to ask, he wants to know how long and why, because it makes no sense to him, but Derek swallows any answer Stiles was hoping to get out with a deep kiss and another swift movement. Stiles has done this hundreds of times on his own, but he didn't know, never fathomed how incredibly different it would be with someone else. 

Derek keeps working him up and down, slowly at first and then picking up pace, matching each stroke with a kiss or a suck or a blunt bite at Stiles' neck and jawline. Stiles moves his hands along Derek's body, underneath his shirt, touching and trailing over Derek's muscles and his burning skin, trying to just feel him close as he's mumbling out half words, calling Derek's name, gasping and groaning every time Derek moves his hand. He never takes his eyes off Derek's face, even when it's buried in his neck in a kiss. It doesn't take too long before he calls out Derek's name frantically and comes shock-hard, throwing his head backwards just a little and finally shutting his eyes as Derek bites and then sucks at his lower lip, swallowing Stiles' loud moan. It takes a few moments for him to come down from it, and Derek's soothing him out, holding him close, whispering softly in his ear.

Stiles is still a little disoriented with the daze and the awesomeness as Derek turns him softly and they sit down on the edge of the bed, and he realizes Derek's hand is wet and sticky, covered in his come. He flushes and mumbles, "Um, fresh ones. I've got fresh ones in the bedside table drawer. Uh, if you, um, want." Derek actually chuckles at his discomfort, the little bastard. Stiles watches as Derek cleans his hand, then his eyes travel to Derek's jeans, where he's obviously hard, to Stiles' astonishment. Before he can think better of it, Stiles slides from the bed to the floor in front of Derek, nudges his legs open with his shoulders, and starts fumbling with the buttons of his jeans.

"Stiles, you don't- -" Derek says and touches Stiles' hand slightly, but Stiles cuts him, "No, no, I want to, if that's okay," he says, although he has no idea where that line came from. He's shaking a little, but he manages to undo Derek's jeans and take them down along with the boxers, not too much, just enough. 

He stares for a moment, because really, he has to, he has no idea what he's doing, he's seen in plenty of times in porn but it's painfully obvious he's never done it. Then he thinks that if he survived a week in a fucking amnesia spell, than he can definitely get through a fucking blow job. He goes down, taking Derek in his mouth. It's strange and awkward and he doesn't know if he's doing it right, but Derek's groaning quietly, softly, the moan growing a little inhuman at the edges, and Stiles wants him to keep going, wants to drive those sounds out of him harsher and harsher. Derek fists a hand in his hair and sighs out a moan, his other hand sliding under Stiles' shirt to his shoulder and scratches just a little. It makes Stiles' stomach make a somersault, seeing Derek lose a little control like that. He doesn't know what to do with his hands, but it's uncomfortable to keep them hanging, so he puts one on Derek's thigh and another at the base of his dick, fingers just brushing a little, which wins him a lower growl from deep in Derek's throat. 

After a few moments, Stiles decides to try something. He releases Derek and starts running his tongue along the length of his cock, moving up and passing his tongue and his red, swollen lips across the exposed part of Derek's stomach until he reaches his hipbone, where he kisses softly and sucks and bites, smiling inwardly a little at the way Derek moans. Derek tugs his hair a little forcefully to pull his face up, connecting their eyes, and Stiles' insides clench seeing the icy shades of Derek's eyes burn like that. 

When he sinks back down, he goes in deeper than before, moving a little, tugging a little, sucking a little. He moves his lips along, working gently and praying his hours of watching porn are paying off, taking a look at Derek's face through his eyelashes every so often to find that Derek's always watching him, even when his eyes are half-closed with what Stiles hopes is a jolt of pleasure. Then Derek tugs at his hair, digs his fingers into his shoulder and grits out his name in warning, and Stiles sinks in completely and sucks one last time before pulling back and moving aside just in time, and Derek comes hard all over the floor. Stiles watches him for a few moments as he gasps and sighs, afraid to say anything, until he comes down from it.

Some indefinite time later, after they've cleaned up and got themselves composed, they're lying on the bed, not quite touching but close enough to feel each other's presence, Derek's arm spread across the pillows and Stiles' head rested on it. Stiles wonders if he's done anything right in a past life or something in order to get to this moment, because he's never dared to dream to feel so peaceful and content, and if werewolves and magical rune circles exists, then who is he to question the existence of past lives.

"Say, what did you mean? Last night." Derek says suddenly.

"Okay, umm, Derek, I know this whole talking to people bit is somewhat new to you, but seriously, you hear me talk practically non-stop, you should know by now that if you actually want me to understand what you're talking about, you need to be just a tiny bit less vague."

Derek frowns a little, but continues, "On the way to the hospital. You asked me if we weren't an eclipse. What did you mean?"

"Oh, that," Stiles is embarrassed by the whole situation, "Any chance you'd just, like, ignore that?"

"No."

"Sure? I'm willing to negotiate sexual favors."

"Tempting, but no." Derek's voice is annoyingly monotonic.

"Fine," Stiles grumbles, "When I was in the non-mirrored world… Well, actually they were both mirrored, I guess, now that I think about it, but the supernatural one, you came to pick me up after I ran and got horribly drunk in the woods. You – not you, phantom-you, but still – were totally worried and pissed over the situation, it was really hot, by the way," Stiles adds just because he can, "Anyhow, I got all broody and philosophical about it, said we were like the sun and the moon."

"How?" Derek asks quizzically.

"Two things that shouldn't be attracted to each other, but are. I was really drunk, okay?"

"You realize that sentence makes no scientific sense, right?"

"Yeah, that's what you said! Man, this is one creepy déjà vu." Stiles says, "Anyway, after a while phantom-you got all grumpy and said maybe I'm right, 'cause every time we clash, there's darkness." Stiles rushes the last sentence out.

"Oh," Derek knits his eyebrows, "Hmm."

"What? What 'hmm'? What's so weird?" Stiles asks defensively. 

Derek turns his head to look at him. "I wouldn't say that."

"Oh. Really? You wouldn't?" 

Derek raises his eyebrows as he stares at him. "Wow," he says, "You really had no idea, huh?"

"I had no idea what?"

"Never mind. No, I wouldn't say that. I'd probably hit you and tell you to shut up, though."

"Oh." Stiles contemplates on that, "Good to know. Wait, I had no idea what?"

Derek just chuckles, and Stiles knows he's not going to get anything out of him at the moment. He considers to continue arguing anyway, just for the heck of it, but Derek goes back to staring out the window as he closes his fingers tightly around Stiles' shoulder, bringing him a few inches closer, with just the right amount of possessiveness in this gesture, and Stiles decides to let himself relax and save this crusade for another time.

"What was it like?" Derek whispers after they've been like this for quite a while of easy, comforting silence, "In the phantom world. What was it like?" Stiles tenses up and turns to look at Derek. All his muscles clench, because that is a very loaded question, and Stiles doesn't know if he'd be able to talk about it just yet. It's not that he doesn't want to share it with Derek, but he's afraid. Afraid of what will pour out of him if he starts talking about it directly.

"It's okay, you don't have to tell me," Derek says, and Stiles looks into his eyes and sees nothing but truth in them. How? How is it that he can be made to feel so wide open, so raw and vulnerable, yet so safe at the same time, despite the irrationality of it?

He's quiet for a long time, looking up at the ceiling. Finally he finds the words to express some of what he wants to say without pushing himself over the edge, "When I was a kid, about eight or so, I went on a day trip with my mom and dad. It was a track down a mountain and through a little creek. The water reached up to my chest, but I insisted on going on my own, even though it was really slippery and my dad offered to carry me on his shoulders. I slipped on one of the rocks. I had all these tiny branches above me, from the bushes around the creek. And as I was falling, even though I knew in the back of my mind that those branches won't be able to hold me, I grabbed at them and gripped at anything I could find, anything that would create the illusion of slowing the fall. But I still fell into the water." He's still looking at the ceiling as he whispers, "That's what it felt like in there."

Derek doesn't say anything for a while. Eventually Stiles looks at him and says, "I'm sorry if it doesn't make any sense. It's all I can give right now."

"No," Derek whispers, "No, it does, I get it. Don't rush anything out. Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."

And with that, Stiles thinks maybe, just maybe, things were going to be their own twisted version of okay. Maybe even better.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to visit me on Tumblr: [wish-on-a-wing](http://wish-on-a-wing.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Hope you had fun!


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